Red on White
by HollyandHawthorn
Summary: When the Sectumsempra curse hits Draco, Snape doesn't come. A story of the aftermath and the value of a life.
1. Bloodstains

What had he done?

He stood frozen in the middle of the bathroom, Myrtles shrieks echoing from the walls, but barely reaching his ears. All he could see was blood.

He watched it spread like a disease, staining the white cotton, flowing onto the floor and snaking out through the water that covered the stone. It was so bright. Too bright to even be real.

Draco's frame as slumped against the sink, the great gash stretching the expanse of his pale chest contrasting heavily against the glowing white of his shirt, his skin, his hair. It was almost sickeningly beautiful.

Harry stood a moment longer, his wand hung limp between his fingers and his eyes wide with shock. But the blood was spreading. He had to do something.

And fast.

He dropped to his knees beside the other boys shaking form, the crimson water soaking chillingly into his trousers. With an audible gulp, he pocketed his wand, bent down low, and lifted Draco from under his shoulders and knees, his body offering no resistance to Harry's touch. His skin was deathly cold, and he shook ever so slightly, eyes gazing out through drooping lids.

Holding him close to his chest, Harry turned to the door and strode as fast as he dared.

"Don't you dare die," he muttered under his breathe, the panic straining with each syllable. He turned into the corridor, the heat of the blood soaking through his uniform with each step driving him forward. "Don't bloody die."

He raced through the halls, up the stairs to the seventh floor as quickly as he could, clutching tight to Draco's shuddering form, as though if he held on tight enough, it would somehow keep him here just that much longer.

He ignored the horrified stares of the other students in the corridors, the gasps and screams as the blood began to drip onto the flagstones. He had no time for that, not now.

When he finally kicked through the door to the hospital wing, just over two minutes had passed since the curse had broken through Draco's flesh. It felt like forever, like every footstep was an eternity, and every breathe drew him closer to the end.

Madam Pomfrey cried in shock, racing over to the pair immediately. "What happened!" was all she could manage to splutter out.

"Fix him."

He felt like a child, like a four year old asking for their favourite toy to be glued back together. Like it was that simple.

He lowered him onto the closest bed so that she could get to work, whipping out her wound and muttering incantations under her breathe. Harry just stood there, dripping with the Slytherin's blood. Tears began to run silently down his face, and it took all his strength not to fall in a useless heap.

He watched the wound closing before him, he watched Draco's sheet white fingers shaking at his side, watched his face, his lips parted slightly as he inhaled shallow, sharp breathes. Sweat beading on his forehead ran into the white of his hair, flecked with the crimson that coated both the boys now.

Harry took a deep breathe, biting down on his lip until the bitter metallic taste of blood met his tongue. He did this. He had left this wound on another person. He felt disgusting.

He _was _disgusting.

He ran from the room, dropping to all fours and throwing up into the silence. He stank of blood, somebody else's blood. Malfoy's blood.

He crawled to the wall, leaning heavily against it as the tears began to flow in earnest, hot against clammy skin. He balled his fists in his hair, hot and sticky against the softness of his hair. He was such an idiot.

An idiot, for trusting the Prince in the first place, despite everything Hermione had told him. An idiot, for using it when he had no idea of the consequences. An idiot for using it on Malfoy…

He closed his eyes and bowed his head. His heart raced in his chest and his fingers stayed wrapped torturously tight in his hair. What was he going to do? He couldn't walk away from this. They'd expel him, without a doubt. He should go pack his bags, say goodbye to his friends one final time and break his wand in two.

No.

Eyes flicking open again he gazed at the wall opposite for only a moment before clambering to his feet. He looked around him one final time, and stepped back into the hospital wing. The doors creaking ominously loud in the quiet.

Draco was laying silent and still on the bed where Harry had laid him, hands stilled limply at his sides. Madam Pomfrey bustled around him, various concoctions resting on the bedside table.

"He'll be fine," she murmured as the door closed behind him, eyes not leaving her ork for even a moment. "How on Earth he managed an injury like this I beyond me," at this she turned her gaze to Harry, the accusation in that glare was breathtaking.

Harry simply stared blankly back at her. He had no intention of speaking about it with her, the only person who know the truth now was Dumbledore, everyone else would find out from Draco soon enough, once Harry as gone. He cast his eyes to Draco's face, pink high in his cheeks and his breathing even and slow.

Harry turned back to Madam Pomfrey, holding her gaze for a moment before he spoke.

"Take care of him for me." His voice was soft and broken, the desperation behind it lingering in the air before he finished. "Please…"

He turned and left the room, caked in the blood of another boy, tears afresh in his eyes as he walked down the corridors and calmly into Dumbledore's office.


	2. The Feel of Filth

_Everybody told me one chapter wasn't enough, so I'm back again. Admittedly the last chapter was one of those spur of the moment kind of things, I wrote it in ten minutes. This one I actually had to think about, so it mightn't be as good._

_I don't own Harry Potter or any of it's concepts. Your reviews are golden to me. And every one helps me to improve._

* * *

><p><em>Tell me would you kill<em>  
><em>To prove your right?<em>

The news of Harry and Draco's duel in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom spread through the school like wildfire, so that by the following morning, every student was talking in hushed voices at the breakfast table, sharing their own twistedly false version of the events nobody had witnessed.

Harry stared at the toast on his plate, feeling no desire to eat with all the whispering around him. It was an odd kind of attention, not like he had ever experienced before. As he walked through the corridors on his way to the Great Hall that morning, student had averted their eyes and scurried away without a word. It felt as though the entire student body seemed to believe he was somehow tainted for what he had done.

But then again, he himself thought that he was tainted.

He didn't even know how he had gotten here, how he was sitting at breakfast, his wand in one piece, and still a member of Gryffindor house, he had been so sure he was at least going to be expelled for what he had done to the boy lying in the hospital wing at this moment. But no, Harry had somehow found a way out of it, though he wasn't quite sure how exactly.

Once he as sure his toast had gone cold, he looked up and across the table where Ron and Hermione were arguing over the latest Transfiguration essay, Hermione insisting that Ron do his own homework for once. Harry watched them for a few moments, not really listening, his mind wandering back to the memory that now plagued his mind.

He couldn't get the blood out of his head, there had been so much of it, his uniform upstairs had been peeled away from his equally blood soaked skin hours after the incident, the smell had been putrid. It clung to every inch of skin, the copper scent of old blood, he smelt it in his hair, on his hands and tasted it on his tongue. He was filthy.

He had stood below the scolding hot water, scrubbing at every inch of skin for over an hour, it ran from his body stained sickeningly crimson, running from his hair, his face, his bare chest and his fingertips, and even when the water eventually ran clear, he still felt just as dirty as when he had first climbed in.

He flesh burned from the heat, his hair clinging to his face as he exited the bathroom, the dirt following him. He didn't want it to follow him, what if got the dirt on his friends? He definitely didn't want them to be as tainted as he had made himself. He threw the Princes stupid potions book into the bottom of his trunk, piling random items on top of it before locking the trunk tightly shut.

This was all the Princes fault, he had been so faithful, so trusting, and then something like that ends up in there? What kind of a person thought up spells like that anyway?

That was all Harry really remembered from the moment he had left the hospital wing, the rest just seemed to fade into an intense dark haze that swallowed him up. It was quite frightening really, so he did all he could do to keep away from the darkness, even if it meant is mind was constantly focused on the blood instead.

He dropped his eyes from Ron and Hermione and back to the toast on his plate. His stomach grumbled in protest, but food would do him no good, it would just come straight back up again. He poked the bread with his fork, willing his eyes not to wonder around the Hall. He was sure most of the other students would be staring at him right now.

"…to class anyway. Coming, Harry?"

Harry suddenly snaps his head away from his toast, staring at Hermione with wide eyes. "Sorry, what?"

"I was just saying, we should probably be getting to class, everybody seems to be leaving anyway." She pointed around the fall as she spoke, but Harry's eyes remained resolutely glued to Hermione. She sighed, whether out of frustration or worry, he couldn't really tell. "Come on." She glanced once at Ron before standing to leave the table.

The two boys followed suit, Ron trotting along behind Hermione, and Harry walking with his bowed to the floor, the last thing he needed to do was make eye contact with any of these people. The walk was excruciatingly slow, passing the three other house tables before he finally reached the doors, all eyes burning into him as he went. The heat was the most difficult to stand as he passed by the Slytherin table, their stares seemed merciless and unwavering compared to the rest of the houses.

He hears the voices break out behind him as he leaves the Hall, though he doesn't bother to listen, instead concentrating on the rhythmic cracking of each step he took. Hermione and Ron were arguing again, so he allowed himself to drop behind them, watching as their cloaks billowed out behind them as they walked.

He wondered if his cloak had billowed out that delicately behind him when he was carrying Draco to the hospital wing, it couldn't possibly have looked that placid, there had been nothing at all delicate about that walk of shame.

He really had to find something better to think about. This was going to drive him insane.

He climbed staircases, turned corners, ducked away from a rampaging peeves, without really knowing where he was, or where he was headed for that matter. He simply followed along behind the delicate cloaks swishing in front of him.

He should have looked around, should have figured out where it was he was headed, but he kept his eyes down. He missed the group of Slytherins slipping out behind the three Gryffindors. He didn't even hear their quiet footsteps as they followed along in their wake. It was only when Ron and Hermione rounded the corner some distance in front of him, still deeply immersed in their petty argument, that Harry realised they were there.

"Hey, potter!" The voice was unfamiliar, a deep, slow growl coming from behind him. He turned instantly, whipping his wand from his pocket and pointing it toward the voice. His eyes grew wide when he realised the voice wasn't the only one, there had to be at least ten people sneering at him, wands pointed directly at his heart.

The swallowed audibly, there was no way he was up for a fight right now.

"Draco's not in a good way, Potter" He identified the voice at last, as that of Vincent Crabbe. Funny, he didn't hear him talk much at all. "You messed him up real good." Crabbe took a few slow steps forward, fat fingers wrapped around his wand tightly. "You know, us Slytherins, we stick together, and when someone starts picking fights with us, well..." He smiled cruelly as the students behind him laughed. "They don't get to walk away just like that."

"What do you want?" Harry shuffled back slightly, Crabbe was quite a bit bigger than him.

"Oh, you know... Revenge" he tossed his hand through the air nonchalantly, before giving a small nod to the group behind him.

At that, the group moved forward, wands raised, and the last thing he saw was a brilliant flash of red light.

* * *

><p><em>There's more, don't panic.<em>


	3. The AntiChosen

_I'm so sorry that this took so long, I had a pretty severe run of writers block and had to rewrite the chapter about six times. Even then I don't think this is as good as it could have been, so sorry, again. Please review, it means the world, especially when I'm having such a hard time with this story. Thanks, hope you like it._

* * *

><p><strong>The Anti-Chosen<strong>

The sound of the blast made the entire school come to a roaring halt. Students stopped in their tracks, staring in shock at the ceilings in silence, the teachers froze mid-conversation, and even peeves became motionless for a moment, halfway through pelting chalk at a group of horrified first years.

It was the kind of sound that could make blood curdle, it echoed loudly down the stairwells, it traveled through the stone walls as though they were made of air, it shook the high windows, and sent chills down your spine.

The sound that followed shortly after it, however, was only heard by the small group of Slytherins gathered on the fifth floor. The sharp crack as the back of Harry Potter's head met the floor.

* * *

><p>Draco's eyes flew open in an instant, the sunlight stinging as he blinked his vision into focus. Where the hell was he? And more importantly, what the hell was that sound?<p>

He stared at the ceiling for few moments, waiting for the disorientation to subside, before he finally tried to heave himself into a sitting position. He ran his fingers across the scratchy white sheets lying across his body, they felt so cheap, it was disgusting. He laid his hands flat on the bed, and began to push himself away from the warmth.

The pain that hit him was phenomenal.

It shot across his chest in a long burning line, running up the side of his neck and sucking all the air from his lungs. He collapsed back into the pillows within a second of attempting to sit, his flesh stinging as though someone had pressed a long, straight branding iron right across his ribcage.

He gasped for air, gripping at those cheap sheets like a lifeline, as he waited for the pain to slowly subside. It took an eternity.

When he finally heard the sound of movement from within the room, he turned his head ever slightly to the left, only to see Madam Pomfrey bustling around the large room with several bottles clutched in her boney fingers. The hospital wing, of course, how could he have expected any different. He turned his face back to the ceiling, glaring at it as he thought hard.

How exactly had he ended up here? He brought a hand up to his chest, where the skin still throbbed painfully, running his fingers across the flimsy fabric that covered his body, and feeling the thin, raised section of skin that ran from the underside of his ribcage, across his chest, and up, all the way to the pale skin that stretched across his neck.

And then he remembered, the memory rushing back to him like a train on a track. Potter had done this to him. He should have known that nosey git would get in the way somewhere along the line, he had always managed to go looking for trouble, finding some new stupid way to act the hero, and have all the students at this pathetic school kissing his shoes.

But never, in his wildest dreams, had Draco ever expected Potter to know magic like this. He ran his fingers up and down the long scar that branded him absent-mindedly, Potter had always been so intent that nobody should get hurt, not without reason anyway. So why start now? Draco had steered clear of him all year, he never had the time nor the energy to waste on bullying Potter anymore.

In fact, Draco hadn't really had much time to spend on anything of late. He spent hours cooped up in the Room of Requirement, trying desperately to fix that stupid cabinet. At every opportunity, he would disappear into the room, becoming increasingly frustrated with himself. Why would the stupid thing not work? It had to work.

His life depended on it.

He had no choice but to keep trying now, to keep pushing forward without a glance backward, because one moment of doubt, would be all it took for the Dark Lord to end Draco's life. And the thought of that terrified him. He had to get that cabinet fixed, because there was no other way to escape anymore.

The Dark Lord wanted Potter, and the only way he could get to him was if Draco killed Dumbledore, that was simple enough to understand, but the idea made Draco's stomach clench uncomfortably, and a cold sweat break out on his brow.

What if the rumours were true? What if Potter really was the only one who could end him once and for all...

He was scared. Absolutely terrified, of what as going to happen to him, of what was going to happen to his family. He had made the ultimate sacrifice for his father, to get him out of azkaban, to get back the respect his family had been so used to, but now, he was starting to think it was very much the wrong decision to make.

This Death Eater business was beyond frightening.

All of a sudden the colour drained from Draco's pointed face. How much had they seen? Did they know? They must have seen it!

He brought his left arm up in front of his face, eyes wide and fearful as he looked at the white cloth sleeve that covered the mark. They had to have noticed it, he had been so careful for so long, but now... how long had he been unconscious for?

Fear welled up inside his chest, his heart hammering against his aching ribs. He had to get out of here. He whipped his head around to look at Madam Pomfrey again, her back was turned, and she seemed quite immersed in whatever useless task she was doing. Now might be his only chance.

He brought his hands back to his sides and pushed up quickly, hissing as the pain erupted across his torso again, bringing tiny white stars to his eyes and making his arms wobble ominously as he tried to support all of his weight. He gave another quick glance towards Madam Pomfrey as he heaved himself into a proper sitting position, and brought his hands around to toss back those cheap, scratchy sheets.

In that moment, the doors to the hospital wing burst open to reveal a triumphant looking Crabbe, his chest heaving as though he had run all the way up here. Draco stared at him in shock, what the bloody hell was he so happy about? He looked him up and down, noting the wild look in Crabbe's eyes as he stared back at Draco, and the blood on the bulky Slytherin's hands.

"What on Earth do you think you're doing?" Madam Pomfrey's voice was shrill though hushed, as though Crabbe had just burst into a nursery of sleeping children.

He shoved his bloody hands into the pockets of his robes roughly, "I'm here to talk to Malfoy, that's what I'm doing," he gave her an icy glance before returning his gaze to Draco.

"Mr. Malfoy is-"

"Perfectly fine." At the sound of Draco's cold drawl, she turned to face him, her eyebrows knitted together in concern.

"when did you wake up?" she asked, her voice high in shock, or fear, he couldn't really tell.

"Not so long ago, now if you wouldn't mind-" Draco pointed towards her office and cocked an eyebrow expectantly. Whatever news Crabbe had to share, it definitely wasn't for the ears of the staff. "-I would like a little privacy." he laid thick emphasis on the last word, indicating that the conversation was very well over.

She glared at him for a moment longer, before turning on her heel and closing her office door behind her with a sharp click. Draco waited a few moments longer, the pain in his chest giving a particularly malicious stab, before he turned his attention back to his fellow Slytherin, who slouched towards him with that stupidly happy grin still plastered on his face.

Draco simply stared, waiting for whatever it was he had been so eager to tell.

"We got him"

"Got who?"

"Potter, of course." Draco felt the blood run away from his face, turning his gaze to Crabbe's robes, gaping at the crimson smeared across the white of his school shirt.

"What the hell did you do to him?"

Crabbe's smirk widened, his watery little eyes glittering with what looked like a sick kind of pride. A million scenarios ran through Draco's head, but the only coherent thought that came to mind, was that whatever they had done, would have done just about as much damage as Potter had managed to inflict on him. Slytherins had a rather notable reputation for revenge, and Draco had no doubt that this had been completely merciless.

"Where is he?" Draco's legs had swung out of the bed before he even knew what he was doing. He cringed as the pain in his chest clawed at his insides, but dropped to his feet all the same. Potter couldn't die, he was his only hope.

"What does it matter?" Crabbe actually laughed at this point, "Let the scum rot, I say."

Draco snatched his wand from the tiny bedside table, pointing it straight into Crabbe's stupid face.

"Tell me. Where. He. Is."

He grabbed at the front of Crabbe's uniform, pulling him close and holding the wand barely an inch from his face. He could feel the blood rushing back to his face, could feel the burn of the slash across his skin, could feel the rage boiling inside him as he stared straight into the eyes of the one person standing between him, and survival. It seemed to work, Crabbe was faltering, fear flashing in his eyes as he swallowed audibly, never breaking eye contact with Draco, as if the very act would cost him his life.

"You know I'll do it!" Draco jabbed the wand into the boy's cheek, "I've got nothing left to lose!"

"The Room of Requirement! Ask for him! He'll be there!"

And with that, Draco stormed from the Hospital Wing, hand clutched to his chest and silver eyes burning bright in the dim corridor.

* * *

><p><em>Gah, that was disappointing. I'll have the next chapter up in a few days. It'll be better, I promise. Don't forget those reviews? Maybe.<br>_


	4. What He Wanted

_I've been on Holidays for quite a while, so this took me forever, sorry. I'm not sure how long this story is going to be but I don't think it'll be particularly huge, considering it was only meant to be a one-shot. Anyway, I love reviews and the like. Hope you enjoy. x_

* * *

><p><strong> What He Wanted<strong>

Draco's footsteps cracked loudly against the stone floor,echoing from the walls and down the deserted corridor. His heart was in his throat, and though the searing pain in his chest threatened to bring him to his knees, he pushed forward, heartbeat throbbing in his ears.

"What do you think you're doing, Malfoy?" Crabbe's voice rang out behind him, strangely distant, as though he were yelling through a glass window. "Isn't this what he wanted? Isn't the whole point of what you're doing, meant to be so Potter dies?"

Draco froze on the spot, staring directly in from of him, blood still thrumming through his veins with vicious intensity. The words repeated in his head, _Isn't this what he wanted? _

His skin prickled uncomfortably, his hands shook by his sides, and the gash that ran the length of his chest clawed violently at his ribcage. This was what the Dark Lord wanted, but what about Draco? This wasn't what he wanted, not at all. Without Harry, he would have no chance, he was dispensable, unimportant. His fingers tightened around his wand, his grey eyes glittering with a sudden surge of bravery, he turned to face Crabbe, who stood stupidly in the middle of the corridor, staring straight into Draco's eyes.

He hesitated for barely a second, "_Petrificus Totalus!_" Crabbe's body froze instantly, he teetered on the spot for a moment, before toppling forward and onto his face, the echoing crack as his nose broke against the flagstones sent chills down Draco's spine.

"I've had it with what _he _wants, he's going to kill me in the end anyway." With that, Draco spat on the ground in disgust, leaving his fellow Slytherin frozen and bleeding on the floor.

He continued on into the silence, pressing a hand to his chest in an attempt to dull the pain that seemed to be seeping into his muscles, his bones, and shooting through every nerve in his body. He didn't have much time, with every step he could feel the blood beginning to drain away from his already pale face, his breathing quickening as his chest seemed to constrict around him.

Damn Potter, none of this would have been a problem if he hadn't been poking his nose around where it didn't belong, Draco would be able to walk properly right now, and Potter wouldn't be bleeding to death on his own. Why did he have to be so damn stupid? Why did he have to get in the way?

Draco shook his head in an attempt to rouse himself, his vision was clouded, and his hands seemed to be shaking uncontrollably now, but he was so close. That blank stretch of wall was only around the corner.

Whatever blood had still been colouring his face drained away in an instant when he rounded the corner, his eyes widening in horror at the scene that presented itself. He felt sick, horribly, and violently ill. He stumbled back, his wand slipping from his fingers with a clatter, before dropping down onto his knees and retching at the sight.

The corridor was empty, but for the tapestry that hung opposite the wall concealing the room Draco had spent much of the year inside. But it was very different to it's usual bland grey appearance. There was blood, painted across the floor, bloody hand prints scattered over the wall, footprints surrounding the one distinct drag line that ran along the stone floor and into the wall, it glowed crimson, reflecting the stark sunlight that filled the hallway.

It was everywhere, that glistening red. Draco could hardly breathe. What had they done to him?

He suddenly found his strength at the thought, dragging himself to his feet and snatching his wand from the ground. He heaved a steadying breath, the dull sting in his chest being pushed to the back of his mind, before stepping forward into the bloody scene.

He hadn't realised until then that he was barefoot, the blood sticking to his feet making him inhale sharply, hissing at the horrible feeling between his toes. But he had no time, there were bigger things now, bigger than a little blood on the floor.

He reached the wall quickly, squeezing his eyes closed and pacing in front of it's bloody expanse. _I need to get to Harry! Let me help him, he's my only hope. Take me to Harry! _He only opened his eyes as he completed his third passing of the wall, and wooden door, as equally crimson as the floor, stood waiting for him.

He practically threw himself at the handle, turning it clumsily and pushing the door open.

The room was small and dark, and smelt of an odd mixture of mould and the metallic stench of blood. Draco lit his wand, heart thumping in his chest as he raised the shaft of silver light towards the centre of the room, where that crimson trail in which he stood seemed to lead.

And there he was.

For a moment he looked as though he was simply asleep, untouched. Draco stepped forward cautiously, holding his wand high, raking his eyes across the crumpled form of Harry, until he finally found the source of all that blood. His skin was paper white, his shock of black hair sticking to his forehead. It ran along his jawline, rivers of it. Dripped from his chin and flowed down the back of his neck in earnest. It pooled around the cheek pressed to the floor, dirtied the lenses of his glasses and stuck to his hair.

Draco was at his side before he even knew what he was doing, he stared at the weak pulse fluttering in his neck, mouth hanging agape. Harry was dying, he had to be. But he couldn't, not now, not when Draco so desperately needed him to stay alive.

It was at this moment that both boys' lives hung so precariously in the balance. This was Draco's moment, to do what he had never been brave enough to do.

* * *

><p><em>It's short and annoying, I know. But I really need to put a lot of emphasis into the next part of the story. Forgive me.<em>


	5. Moonlight

_I'm really bad at this updating business. I'm so sorry, I've been spending the last few weeks having heated arguments with my University over the phone and it can get to be a bit of a creativity drainer. For people who want your moneys, they can be pretty rude those university folk._

_Anyway, that's quite enough from me. This is the final installment for this story (I hope). Let me never have to think of Harry and Draco bleeding all over each other ever again! for a while at least..._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five - <strong>**Moonlight**_  
><em>

Draco didn't know where he had found the strength to lift the dying boy before him, only minutes ago he barely had the strength to hold himself upright, let alone consider the addition of another full grown man. His fingers pressed tightly against the wound at the base of Harry's skull, blood running in streams down his arm and into the scratchy white fabric of his hospital robe, it flourished through the weave with ease, soaking brilliant crimson patches across Draco's slight frame.

Draco had never seen as much blood as this in all of his life, having lived under the sheltered protection of his parents, he had never witnessed any of the true ugliness in the world, well, most of it, anyway. It scared him to see how quickly it soaked through to his skin and dripped from his boney wrist.

It scared him how pale Harry had become, his skin taking on a greyish, fragile appearance and his eyes rolling into the back of his head through his heavy eyelids. He looked incredibly weak, for the first time since Draco had met him.

It had always made him jealous, the amount of strength that seemed to radiate from the boy wonder wherever he went, all eyes turning towards the Gryffindor whenever he entered a room. Draco had always held a grudge from his first experience with him, being refused a handshake was ultimately insulting. Draco had never felt so embarrassed.

But now, none of that even seemed to matter, because something as petty as a handshake was nothing compared to the situation that confronted him now. His feet slipped slightly on the floor as he rushed from the room of requirement, his eyes darting around the corridor in panic. How was there not a soul to be seen?

He considered yelling for help, considered breaking down in a useless heap and screaming for somebody to help him, someone who would know exactly what to do. Because Draco really had no idea what one should with a boy being drained of his own blood.

But he couldn't, imagine how this would look, Draco Malfoy holds a dying Harry Potter in a corridor spattered with his blood. The thought made him convulse, and he very nearly let Harry drop from his arms, only to regain control at the last moment, tightening his grip around Harry's neck and heading with great urgency toward the hospital wing he had only left minutes ago.

He rounded a corner and almost toppled over Crabbe in his hurry, staggering back to stare at him wide eyed in shock, before his face dropped back into a very characteristic scowl. He stepped over his housemate without a second glance, his pulse thumping loudly in his ears as Harry's faded to barely a whisper.

Draco was well and truly soaked, he could feel it running down his legs and across his feet, could feel it sticking the cloth of his robe to his chest and stomach.

It was foul.

And this monstrosity had been created by the people he called his friends. Harry Potter, his only hope, was going to die at the hand of sixth years who had no idea what they were really doing. No idea that the flesh that Draco clung to so tightly was their only real chance at living a life without fear.

How Draco longed for that life.

When he finally reached the doors of the hospital wing it felt as though an eternity had passed, his skin hot and his eyes ablaze. Harry's throat gurgled ominously, his fingers twitching at his sides, but Draco didn't even stop to think, he burst through the doors with all the force he could muster, stumbling over himself and falling to the floor, covered in blood, The Boy Who Lived, dying in his arms.

* * *

><p>Draco didn't remember blacking out<p>

He didn't remember being lifted away from the other boy where he lay

He didn't hear the screams of the people around him.

* * *

><p>Everything hurt. That was the only thing he knew. It felt as though someone had cleaved his head in two, and stabbed him fifty times in the chest with a rusty blade. It was intense.<p>

He was conscious for barely a few moments, his breathing raspy and shallow, but it was long enough.

He heard the footsteps somewhere to his right, not daring to open his eyes for fear of the room spinning violently. Then he was being lifted from the ground, a hand pressed to a particularly excruciating spot at the base of his skull.

He only just caught the whispered promise over the sound of blood thrumming in his ears.

"I won't let you die."

And all was black.

* * *

><p>Draco woke in the middle of the night, sitting bolt upright, his breathing ragged and a cold sweat covering his entire body. His fists gripped to those cheap sheets like a lifeline as he tried to orientate himself with his surroundings.<p>

He felt the familiar stab of pain shoot across his chest as his breathing heaved, his eyes scanning the apparently empty hospital wing for any sign of where Potter could be.

Had it been a dream? He couldn't possibly have thought that entire thing up in his head, it was too vivid, too real. He couldn't possibly stretch his imagination far enough as to actually have Harry bleed to death in his dreams, could he?

He felt disgusting, the blood draining away from his face at the thought as he tossed back the bedsheets and threw himself unsteadily from the bed.

Oh. Okay, definitely not a dream.

Even in the weak silvery light of the moon, the crimson shone malevolently against the stark white of it surroundings, flourished across Draco's arms and chest, dried onto his pale legs and coating the skin on the backs of his hands.

He dropped to his knees and vomited.

He stayed on the ground for a good five minutes, his chest heaving a tears running silently down his face, his eyes glued to the blood that had dried to his hands. The blood of the chosen one. When he was certain that his stomach was back under control, he pushed himself up slowly from the ground, swaying slightly as he walked over toward the only bed that was out of sight, hidden behind the curtains drawn around it.

His dirty hands gripped clean fabric, and drew the curtains back just far enough for him to see the contents of the bed. It took his eyes several moments to adjust to the density of the darkness within the the space, squinting toward the bed at it's centre for what felt like forever, before he finally saw him.

And he was awake, his green eyes staring at the ceiling as his chest gently rose and fell. Draco stared for a good minute, frozen in shock at the sight, before finally moving into the room and sitting on the small stool at Harry's side.

The others boys eyes remained on the ceiling when he spoke, his voice rough from disuse.

"You didn't let me die."

"I could never let you die."

In that moment, Draco felt all the jealousy drain from his body, and he smiled quietly to himself. The Boy Who Lived would live another day, and Draco finally felt that he had done some right in the world.

**_END_**

* * *

><p><em>Don't forget those gorgeous reviews, they make me happy and give me extra strength for phone wars with my educators. THANKYOU FOR READING THIS FAR. I love you all. <em>**_  
><em>**


End file.
